Re-read that again. And again. A few times. Until it becomes real for you. You’re worth it. ❤️
Re-read that again. And again. A few times. Until it becomes real for you. You’re worth it. ❤️
I always end up sitting on that unknown “something sticky” on those bench seats.
Isn’t it ironic though, that lately my life feels like it’s become a three-ring circus.
I’ve got this recovery thing going on in the main ring. Which includes my shrink , Lee and my BFF, Tiffany.
In ring number two is the old Gypsy woman Maleva, from 1941 film The Wolf Man , who seems to whisper for me to grab her pentagram necklace for protection because a Narcissist, “the wolf” is always an imminent threat. As she yammers her famous line,
“even a man who is pure at heart and says his prayers at night, can become a wolf when the wolfbane blooms and the Autumn moon is bright.”
Stupid gypsy, I went on a chat forum where garlic and charms can’t be seen and he bit me, and what’s more, part of me is liking his bite.
Then in a third ring there’s me trying to balance it all 10,000 feet up on a high-wire without any safety net below. Half of me teeters left, intoxicated by the wolf’s advances, the other half teeters right, recoiling as if to touching a hot pan on a stove.
BUT EVERYTHING IS WRONG.
Tiffany knows everything about me, we stay on the phone for hours during the week sharing our journey together. Lee knows little. I fear no judgment from Tiff. She’s made the same mistakes I have. Lee, there is a formality. I have never seen her teeter, much less free-fall. How can she help me? How can she teach me?
I think my trust issues with people are deeper than I thought. I can even trust my own damn shrink. Now that’s some kind of special right there.
This is scaring me, what is going on inside me….Lee pokes around too much with asking me what I’m feeling about this, or that, or the other thing. WTF? I feel like I’m being interrogated at times. “How did you feel when you showed me the photo of the gun up your snatch?” I’m like .... “I didn’t feel anything.” Was I supposed to feel something about it? I don’t know what I’m supposed to be feeling, am I supposed to have specific feelings? Oh shit ! Well I’m not. Now I’m getting anxious that I’m not having feelings about something that I’m probably supposed be having feelings about.
When I let people into my real world, if I feel they get too close to me, I tend to run. Run from safety. I tend to sabotage things. Sometimes unconsciously, sometimes knowingly. I believe my shrink may be able to help me. At other more times, I feel she can’t do squat to help me. Right now I just want to be done with therapy. I feel like it’s a dead end. I feel it’s useless. Other than sharing anecdotes and trying to make Lee laugh, I feel like I’m not working towards any thing.
At least with my ex-Narc, each week I was working on lessons. How to give head, how to deep throat, how to rim, how to take the cane, the whip, the paddle et cetera. There was progress but I digress..
I don’t know what’s going on with me right now. So I have returned to what is familiar. Those old circus clowns. They scare me, sure they can hurt me. But they are a swamp I know well. I know every inch of that mother fucking swamp. But it’s a familiar swamp. I know how it reacts, and how to react to it. The type of pain that lays beneath its murky waters.
Intellectualization and humor are finely tuned defense mechanisms serving to protect me from things. Things which even hint at the scar tissue I carry from earlier battles suffered in life.
Sometimes though, I wish someone knew me well enough to know I’m using them and break out the C4.
You better believe that if renowned narcissist Jim Jones were alive and well today, he’d be reaching far more numbers of vulnerable and impressionable minds by writing a blog from an upscale flat in London than he ever did in the jungles of Guyana. He’d still have his loyal following of devotee’s with their troubled pasts of trauma, broken childhoods, broken marriages, and broken dreams. He would naturally espouse to have vast knowledge on how to remedy all that ails them. He would peddle his special brand of elixir or “how-to” and offer to turn their lives from misery to sanctity and freedom. All that he would ask is that they just put their faith and trust in him, their fearless and self-ascribed Messiah .
Like any good narcissist, he seeks unlimited success/power/love, admiration. He has a grandiose self-worth and believes himself superior to others. He has a lack of empathy well-hidden behind a seamless veneer of charm and charisma. Has a sense of entitlement and possesses interpersonal exploitative behaviors. Only Jones knows to prey upon women with childhood trauma histories, poor boundaries, the lost sorts, all of them looking for anyone to care about them. He knows precisely how to deliver that illusion.
In today’s day and age vampires have adapted. They have no need to fear the daylight, for there are dark sunglasses and sunscreen. So too, the modern-day Jones would dispense his Kool-Aid differently than his predecessor. The pen has always been mightier than the sword, or in this case, the cyanide. Our modern-day Jones would trade preaching for blogging. He would use volumes of facts about narcissism and offer to help others gain “understanding”. Jones may perhaps don the Scarlet Letter and admit publicly to being a narcissist. This would do two things. One, through his blog he would both normalize and desensitize the topic of malignant narcissism as well as foster a cheerleading team for himself. Secondly, through describing his own personal experience of being a narcissist in a “confessional” style blog, he appears honest to readers; even trustworthy. He could ensnare victims by creating an online support group via the comment section of his blog and most of them would naïvely walk into it and never seeing it for its dark potential. His harem, a coterie of would be stand-ins vying for place as his next primary source. For they see him as “reformed.”
The real coterie’s purpose to him? anything he wants. Since many subscribers have their profile linked to their social media, at his disposal are their emails, photos, and sometimes phone numbers. He would most likely spend hours writing, cultivating, and pruning his blog as it would be no doubt a great source of ready-to-eat supply. Simply put, narc heaven.
By the time our Kool-Aid Jones blog gets into the minds of subscribers, his words have already become like a slow-acting poison eating away at what’s left of their own self-confidence. Mesmerizing them, paralyzing them to stay close to him for advice, dare they look right when they might look left. After all, he loves feeling omnipotent, loves their adulation. For only he can solve their queries. He triggers the very trauma bonds in their early histories from which they’ve been trying to escape.
Wait, he seems so benign our Kool-Aid Jones, is there really a need for anyone to run?
I try and pinpoint the exact moment when I realised that my emotional movement was being controlled by his dark choreography. I wasn’t aware until the merciless incessant tugging, left me tangled in the cords, unable to move.
It was then I knew, I was dancing for the Devil.
Liberation first begins with the realization one is captive.
I cut the strings.
I am bound no more.
To all the girls and boys out there who have become insidiously ensnared.
Freedom is within your reach….it always has been.
blood runs cold
it’s happening again!
eyes shut tight
paralyzed with terror.
please not here, not now.
400 miles up
on this tight rope
can hear me scream
don’t say a word
in and out.
open your eyes
touch the ground
it’s not happening.
Ghosts look so very real.
Hard to discern
no imminent harm
in pursuit of me.
After all these years,
they still besiege me,
I stand there before You,
aching for Your
i can’t believe after all this time,
never looked at me.
in my pig tails and patent leather
standing in the doorway
wistful and willing.
but You cannot see me.
for i am hiding behind the wallpaper
little girls hide,
the ones who survived.
layers upon layers cover me
yet i remain forever unchanged.
frozen in time
beneath this woman
waiting and hoping,
will you take me home?
Several years after I was out of the relationship with my ex, my mother received a phone call from a detective in Boston wanting to know if I was alive.
My mom told him that I was. He asked when the last time we had spoken. She had told him it was about a week prior. He explained that he needed confirmation from me that I was indeed alive and to contact him at the phone number he provided. He explained that my ex had tried to developed a photograph at a local pharmacy which depicted a naked woman hanging from a tree by her wrists, bound, blind-folded, ball-gagged, and severely beaten. He claimed that the woman in the photo was me.
My mother was of course shocked but told me to call the detective. I did not believe it was the cops, I thought it may have been him posing as a police officer. Instead, I called the police department’s main number myself and asked for said detective. The story checked out. I was asked to come down to the police station to verify who I was, and that I was alive.
I took the ride and met the detective. He showed me the photo and I verified my identity. He asked me if what happened in the photo was consensual. I said that it was. The detective seemed taken aback. I did tell him at that time I wanted the photo destroyed and that was confused to me as to why my ex had been developing it in the first place since it had been years since we had split up.
The officer assured me that he would make sure he had put the fear of God in my ex about distributing a photo like this and the implications it would have for him if he didn’t destroy it.
As to why my ex had kept it all those years? Like many Sociopaths, particularly those who are sexual sadists, most acquire trophies from their victims. This photo of me may be a trophy of his handiwork. He can re-live that day over and over again by looking at it.
That was the last I heard of him until two months ago when I received a Facebook friends request, which I promptly deleted.
I often read other blogs here on WordPress of both victims of Narcissism as well as a few Narcissists themselves. I have been watching Sam Vatkin’s videos on YouTube for years. I also have been watching Richard Grannon on YouTube for near as long as well.
It would seem that I am doing a good job of staying no contact, despite the two hoovers he sent my way. One came 1.5 years after he discarded me, the other five years later. I am left with a morbid curiosity as to why he ever hoovered me so far out after discarding me. I may well never know.
What I do know is that there is life after a Narcissistic Sociopath. I eventually did go on to meet a new guy. It’s only when one door closes they say that another can open.
The last thing I asked him as I carried my belongings to my car from his house was,
” So you would rather choose a life of paying for prostitutes, going to gangbangs, having NSA sex with people from craigslist, and swinging, than being with me?”
To which he answered,
” well I’m not sure I’d phrase it that way but yes .”
I’m not sure how many weeks it was after I pulled out of his driveway that I just couldn’t get him off my mind. Good, bad, or worse you don’t spend five years with someone and then have it end just in a blink without being in a crap ton of pain. It’s a loss. Even if it was fake on his end, all the feelings had been real on mine.
He hadn’t called me, hadn’t emailed me, hadn’t texted me. It was like I had never even existed. It was like all the ‘I love you’s he had told me was a lie. My mind could understand but my heart wouldn’t accept the truth.
I wanted answers as to why….closure, I desperately needed closure so I sent him an email. I asked him if he missed me and if he ever thought about me.
He did respond and said he would always love me but that I just didn’t fit into his life at this time.
I wrote back again asking if we could just be friends. If I would be able to just clean his house? Mow his lawn? I couldn’t imagine not having some small piece of him . The gaping hole in my heart that he occupied was just too deep. I didn’t feel strong enough to survive the loss.
He answered without hesitation, no.
When I wrote back insisting that I must mean something to him? He wrote back that I was becoming a nuisance and that if I ever contacted him again that he would call the police.
I was horrified. Felt betrayed. Five years of caring for him. What happened to him hanging on my every word so early on? What happened to him teaching me every sexual move I knew?
At first I went numb. Then after weeks of just lying round in my pajamas like a uniform, I did a google search for support groups for women who had been victims of abuse. I put in keywords silence, crazy, mood swings, abuse, sex addiction and found Narcissism.
Then I dig further and found online support groups through Facebook and joined. They don’t show up in your public groups list so your friends and family don’t know your in them. There forums you can read others stories or situations anonymously or also comment and give feedback. You can also write your own story and/ or situation and receive feedback. I felt so much less isolated.
I also joined phone line support groups. This proved invaluable. I phoned into meetings a few times a week. Talking with other women who experienced the same thing. Different keypads on the phone muted and un-muted the phone and the meetings were highly structured so that one person spoke at a time. At the end everyone got a chance to speak.
Every woman that I grew to know on those phone lines told me that he would come back for me one day. They said, “they all do.” They all used their term “Hoover.”
Hoovering is a technique that is named after the Hoover vacuum cleaner, and is used by Narcissists (and other manipulative people) in order to “suck” their victims back into a relationship with them. Hoovering is often done after the silent treatment is given or the victim has left them.
I protested,” not this one he threatened the police on me and apparently made good on it, my local police notified me that although I wasn’t in any trouble, I was asked not to contact him again. That it wasn’t a restraining order but that it would be considered harassment if I did.”
The women all insisted, “he’ll be back.”
And they were right.
A year and a half later, it was Valentines Day evening. I wasn’t doing much. Watching TV, when I heard a knock at the door. I pulled the door open and there he stood.
My heart dropped.
I never ever expected to see him again. He had a box of chocolates and a card in hand. I had done a ton of recovery work but nothing had prepared me for this.
“Well aren’t you going to invite me in?”
As if reflexively, by some unseen force I opened the door. It felt that way, because I felt afraid and yet I also felt hypnotized by him, unable to stop myself from opening the door. There’s something powerful that is created in these trauma bonds they work so hard that form with you in the beginning.
Trauma bond was a term first created by Patrick Carnes used to describe “the misuse of fear, excitement, sexual feelings, and sexual physiology to entangle another person.”
A simpler and more encompassing definition is that traumatic bonding is:
“a strong emotional attachment between an abused person and his or her abuser, formed as a result of the cycle of violence.”
I’m pretty sure that Dracula was a supernatural Narcissist who used trauma bonds on his bitches too.
After I let him in, he initially hugged me but quickly his hands fell and tried to put the moves on me and I realized what he had come for. All the recovery work was not lost. I quickly led him to the door, thanked him for the chocolate, and shut and locked it after he left. He looked quite surprised. I even surprised myself. I threw the chocolate out later. My body did respond to him that night but I never said a thing and I never have.
When people survive repeated sexual assault or abuse, their body often betrays them by responding to their abuser by getting aroused and/or with an orgasm. Researchers David Finkelhor and Kersti Yllo found that some women in their study reported that they had experienced pleasure during the rapes, particularly in cases of repeated rape. They write that this appears to be an “adaptive response” that makes repeated rape more survivable (1985 photo pg 125).
Asking him to leave, rather than falling for the trap of thinking that because my body was responding that it meant somehow we were “meant to be.” This was a huge moment of success for me. I had ushered out the monster and ushered in, the infancy of self-care.
It’s been nearly 3 months since he dumped me. ….so into to him I couldn’t walk away no matter what a piece of shit he was. Cheatings, beatings, lies…….. For 3 and a half years he cheated on me with various prostitutes, couples, Craigslist hookups, and a gangbangs, and as I just recently found out few men too. None of this was known to me til the last year. But I thought I could “fix” him. I really thought if I just loved him enough, he would stop. He dumped me; a faithful, monogamous woman……to go out with and fuck all them
My heart is still broken.
Last night I finally decided to have a drink with an acquaintance I have spoken with for a year by phone, we shall call him S.
He lives a few towns away. We click on many levels, but he realized that I was entrenched, knee-deep in shit with my ex and he was busy was pursuing a married woman who was “seperated”. So although there has been perhaps some interest romantically on both ends, the point was moot. It has remained utterly platonic and we have never met face to face, that is until last night.
We scheduled to meet at a local pub up the street when he got out of work.
I met S at said establishment at around 11:45. I was a bit late because I had just received a voicemail on my home phone last night around 11:30 pm from my ex.
I had seen his name come up on called ID and did not pick up. Who knows why the fuck he calls me, he doesn’t want me anymore. Oh that’s right he’s a sadist, he enjoys seeing me cry and rubbing my face in pain. Foolishly, I did check the message and what I heard made me have the dry heaves.
It was not the voice of my ex it was the voice of another man,
“Thanks for loaning you ex-boyfriend **** out for the night he fucked my wife real good tonight, she really enjoyed that big cock, I didn’t realise he was into bondage he really whipped her ass real good.” Then from out of the background the wife says “oooo I loved it……ohhhh yeah…..he fucked me really good….. oh he fucked me better than ever ……he did things I’ve never even felt before…thank you very much.” Then my qualifier comes on the phone and says, “these folks are going home now, and now I’m going home. Have a good night.”
So 5 minutes before I have to go and meet my new friend and our first possible “date” I am choking back dry-heaves and tears. I am in the bathroom fanning out my eyes and re-applying make-up. I get to the Pub and meet S. It is noisy and so loud, the cigarette smoke when the door opens is so thick, I realise it is not conducive to conversation. Since my son is away for the holiday, I ask S if he would like to come back to my place. He follows me in his car. I am very nervous as I have not had another man in my home for 3 and 1/2 years.
Things go really well for the first few hours. We talk and enjoy great conversation. I see that he makes some subtle advances and I begin to get nervous because I am realising I am in over my head. Although I like S very much and find him attractive. He does have an amazing body and beautiful blue eyes…..I am not ready. My heart is a mess. and if you know me, I need to have emotional involvement to have a relationship. Otherwise he will be a one night stand. I like S too much, I DON’T want it to go that way. We have been friends for a year. Not him……Not now. But he doesn’t see this. He continues to make advances.
I recoil. He senses I am uncomfortable. I apologize for pulling away from the kiss. I feel like a line has been crossed. I feel like I have betrayed my qualifier in some fucked up way, even though we are long since broken up and I still love him…. that only another victim/ empath would understand. Some fucked up torch-bearer like me. Even though I like how he feels, looks, tastes. I feel what I am doing is wrong. He tells me we will kiss again in a few minutes. He is correct.
In the pale light of the pc playlist going, I am having actual flashbacks. My ex and S are the exact age, height, same hair cut, and in this strange light I am having flash backs of “him”. As S is leaning over kissing me, I am actually seeing my qualifier. It’s my C- PTSD (Complex-Post-Traumatic-Stress-Disorder) I recoil again because I am actually leaving my body. It’s too much to handle and so I’m just leaving. S notices something is wrong and asks if I am okay and I don’t know what to say. I tell him “I’m just leaving, just zoning out a bit.” I am more worried about freaking S out and don’t know what to do. How can I explain this to him. The thoughts are intrusive. They are flashbacks, not me wanting to think about my ex. My guess probably largely due to the phone call I had just received. Images of him fucking these people. S continues puts his hand down my panties, I freeze like a deer in headlights panic and can’t seem to say anything, Much like a child who experiences sexual abuse, body betrays me and responds anyway. He probably thinks nothing is wrong. But inside my mind is going wild my heart is racing out of total terror, not the excitment S is feeling. I want it all to STOP.
Something rises up in me and I finally I able to get my body to execute what my mind wants to say and stop him cold in his tracks. I take his hands and just flip him off. I explain to him my position. That once you cross that line, you can’t go back to being friends. and as the words are coming out of my mouth I am simultaneously realising sadly, this man already thinks I am a whore. This guy never had the intention of getting to know me either, the dirtbag. He just wanted what he wanted. Even though not one single solitary man has either touched me nor entered my home in almost 4 years. Even though my ex has cheated on me scores of times, possibly a hundred by now, scar-ily. I remained faithful to that sadistic misogynistic pig. I just want to find a possible relationship and this guy only care about getting off.
Once S realises I am not going to fuck him. He goes to the bathroom, says he’s going to freshens up and says he is going to head out citing that is will just further frustrate us both to keep going on this way. Instead he comes out with his pants unzipped and asks me if I want to see how big his cock is as he’s already pulling it out.
I tell him “No!” and that him just leaving unless I did something sexual, is hurtful.
S said nothing and left anyway.
I feel like a filthy whore…..I feel like I have no worth.
All I wanted was to meet him and get to know him better. Why wasn’t I able to tell him I need to have things move at a slower pace? Why can’t I set boundaries ?
Now this morning I have two pains. The pain of knowing my ex rubbed my nose in some woman he fucked and how much she liked it and her husband apparently watching and liking it. and knowing he chooses that over me. and that he wrote me in an email that he paid $250 on two hookers 2 days earlier for their services. How bad can I be, that he would rather be with a hooker?
The second pain is that my friend S, left because I wouldn’t fuck him.
The message? Unless I spread my legs I have no value.
This must be fucking hell. I must have died on the operating table 2 months ago during surgery. Life can’t possibly hold this amount of pain.